


Recruitment

by LutraGem



Series: Blood and Magic [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Grey Wardens, M/M, POV Cullen Rutherford, Suicidal Thoughts, Templar Training, Templars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 11:56:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9070606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LutraGem/pseuds/LutraGem
Summary: Cullen and Alistair have trained together for five years now, becoming first friends and then something more. Now, in Bloomingtide 9:29, they have travelled all the way from the Bournshire Monastery with their peers to see the Order's finest duel it out for the honour of becoming a Grey Warden. When the Warden-Commander asks for Alistair to join the tournament, Cullen and Alistair's already complicated relationship becomes even trickier as they have to work out what it is that they want, and whether the other can be part of it.CW: discussion of the emotional abuse/neglect of a child; implied sex scene; brief mention of suicide ideation.





	

**Author's Note:**

> An expansion on [a drawing I did for a Secret Santa exchange,](http://apparentlyaveline.tumblr.com/post/154862402906/happy-holidays-to-my-santee-dorianofminrathous) based on details provided in _World of Thedas: Volume 2._ Now featuring [the re-draw of my art by rainbowd00dles!](https://rainbowd00dles.tumblr.com/post/166224679466/my-part-of-an-art-trade-with-apparentlyaveline)
> 
> Dedicated to the ever-wonderful Cullistair Appreciation Club+friends.
> 
> This hasn't been checked, so do give me a shout if you spot any mistakes! The narrative style is deliberately a little more informal than usual. Hopefully young-Cullen doesn't sound too much like old-Cullen.

Cullen had a bad feeling about the tournament.

He couldn’t put his finger on it. Objectively, there was nothing wrong with it; a Grey Warden wanted to recruit a templar, and the higher-ups had decided to showcase the Order’s finest with a competition. Warriors had gathered at Denerim to perform under Knight-Commander Glavin and the grand-cleric – and, it seemed, a great number of Ferelden’s nobility. They were also being shown as an example for recruits to aspire to: several groups of teenagers could be seen amongst the crowd, burgundy clusters chaperoned by flustered knights as they gabbled about this templar or the other’s chances or skills. Most of the voices were coloured by the capital’s accent, which was hardly surprising as the city boasted the largest training facilities in the country.

Maybe it was the alien nature of Denerim that unsettled Cullen: a city, tens of thousands strong, when Cullen had never seen more than a few hundred congregated at once; an unfamiliar accent; the threat of pick-pockets; buildings and smoke as far as the eye could see, crawling up the hill towards what Knight-Lieutenant Henna had informed the largely-distracted group was Fort Drakon. The little Bournshire Monastery contingent from the West Hills, only twelve strong, seemed rather out of place in the hustle and bustle.

One competitor. One chaperone. Ten recruits, chosen for their likelihood to take their vows within the year; it was a long journey from West Hills that took them through the hinterlands and the Imperial Highway, and so they had to be able to defend themselves. Having only turned eighteen the week before they left the monastery, Cullen was the youngest, but had repeatedly proven himself competent with sword and shield, level-headed and dedicated to the Order and his own improvement.

Unlike Alistair.

“What say you we slip off and find ringside standing, hmm?” the older boy practically purred in Cullen’s ear.

Cullen jabbed his elbow back into Alistair’s sternum, hard enough to drive a bark of laughter from the other boy’s lungs but not hard enough to hurt. “Al!” he snapped. The other recruits hardly gave them a glance; everyone knew about Alistair’s mischievous nature, as well as the fact that he and Cullen were best friends, constantly waging war on the other’s need to take things seriously/easy and bailing the other out of/getting the other into trouble. 

At least nobody had noticed when their friendship had shifted into something more complicated.

“Maker’s breath, we can’t just— Al, do you _want_ to spend the rest of the summer on kitchen duties?”

Maybe the bad feeling was a forewarning that Alistair would get himself, or both of them, into trouble.

Alistair winked. “That’s not much of a threat when we’re both taking our vows in Solace.” Despite the levity in his voice, a familiar, tired expression passed over his face.

Sighing, Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t need another incident on his record. “Or they might decide we’re not ready yet. Ser Malachi will know within thirty seconds that we’ve gone, and if we’re at the ringside then Knight-Lieutenant Henna will see us!”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take. This is likely to be the last bit of entertainment we’re ever to see before we’re dropped off in some remote chantry in the bannorn on the off-chance that some poor kid’ll blow up a barn, or a mage escapes Kinloch.”

“...You heard about that mage who’s escaped five times from there? He’s probably planning his sixth as we speak, Al.”

Alistair flapped his hands dismissively. “Cullen. _Semantics._ ”

“I… don’t think that’s what that word—”

“ _Semantics,_ ” he repeated. “Are you with me or not, Cullen?”

Cullen stared levelly at him, smugly reflecting on how pleasant it was to have gained an inch on Alistair. It took only a moment for his mood to change, though, as he recognised the wild desperation in Alistair’s eyes. The older boy kept it under wraps in the monastery barracks, hiding behind buffoonery and smiles, but he was screaming on the inside at the prospect of being fully bound to the Order. There was a deadness in his gaze sometimes, one that Cullen would do anything to chase away.

Unfortunately, the middle of a tournament was hardly the place to kiss him until he laughed again.

He averted his eyes, cheeks already burning at the thought. “...Let me talk to Ser Malachi. Maybe I can get permission for us to go, if I tell him I’ll keep you out of trouble.”

“Before you go, have I told you that I think you’re brilliant?”

“Not often enough.”

~~~

Half an hour later, and the crowd was roaring as the first competitors entered the field. Cullen and Alistair weren’t quite at the ringside, but were tall and gangly enough to see what was going on. The standing space was so packed that the boys were pressed close together – not that they minded. 

There was a certain thrill to touching in public: while they knew they weren’t the only fraternising pair, such relationships were frowned upon and things were… complicated, and thus better kept private. The touches in training were focused, and guarded by metal armour; the touches in the company of others were fleeting, friendly pats and punches; the touches in their shared room were intimate and comforting and terrifying. Cullen felt no shame in principle for wanting another boy, but the wanting itself? Not knowing if it was a foolish, childish crush made stronger by the imminent separation, or true affection? Not knowing where brotherhood ended and lust began? The unspoken conversation, ‘What does your misery in and my dedication to the Order mean for us?’ That felt like standing on the precipice.

He loved Alistair, as best he could understand it. But the words remained unsaid, just in case this wasn’t love.

Next to him, Alistair whooped, his face alight with joy. Cullen stared. Around them, the crowd cheered, and yet it seemed muted and hazy.

No. This bad feeling _definitely_ had something to do with Alistair.

_'I cannot see the path.  
Perhaps there is only abyss.'_

_Don’t be ridiculous, Rutherford,_ he chided himself. _There’s no way a recruit’s getting involved. They’d never allow it. He can’t go to the Grey Wardens. That time he mumbled in the tavern on the way here that he wished he could fight and escape the templars—_

“Cullen?”

He blinked.

Alistair peered at him, perplexed. “Are you alright?”

Cullen shook his head and gave him a weak smile. “We’ve got almost front-row seats to watch the finest warriors in Ferelden, and I’m with my best friend, miles away from Ser Terrin’s abysmal excuse for turnip and barley stew. It just hit me.”

There was a faint twist to Alistair’s lip, and Cullen knew he’d been caught in his lie. The older boy said nothing of it, though, and turned his eyes back to the field.

A moment later, fingertips dug their way between Cullen’s knuckles, and a rough palm clasped the back of his hand.

Cullen clenched his fingers in acknowledgement. _It’s selfish of me, I know, but maybe if I don’t let go, I won’t lose him._

~~~

In the midday sun, the competitors stopped for a break, and the crowd dispersed a little, spreading out to eat whatever food they had brought with them, or leaving their spots in search of refreshment. The boys released their grip on each other, and after Cullen firmly forbade Alistair from going wandering, he went to find Ser Malachi and the others in the surrounding galleries overlooking the courtyard, in part to get lunch and in part to report back that Alistair was in fact behaving himself.

“At least one of you boys is sensible,” grumbled the knight. “Maker preserve the knight-captain of wherever Alistair goes after he takes his vows.”

“Um,” said Genevieve, gently tugging at Cullen’s tunic to get his attention. “Ser Malachi—”

“—maybe they’ll put you two together, as an act of mercy—”

“—Ser Malachi,” Genevieve repeated, louder this time, and Cullen turned to see what she was trying to bring their attention to.

The air left his lungs.

Alistair was standing in the ring itself, just below the revered guests’ seats, talking to Knight-Commander Glavin and the Grey Warden. Glavin looked sullen.

_You shouldn’t have let go._

“Maker’s _balls_ ,” he swore, stumbling back the way he came with no care for Ser Malachi and Genevieve’s calls.

_You shouldn’t have let go, Cullen._

By the time Cullen reached the ring, Alistair was approaching, a dazed grin on his face. “Cullen!” he exclaimed. “The Warden wants to see me in the tournament!”

“He _what?_ ” cried Cullen. “But— Alistair—”

“Come on,” Alistair grunted, gripping Cullen’s forearm and steering him back towards the barracks the Bournshire group had been assigned. Already some angry muttering was spreading through the crowd. “You can be my squire — I’ll explain everything while we get my armour.”

There wasn’t much to explain. The Grey Warden – Warden-Commander Duncan – had caught his eye as he waited patiently – _“Patiently, I tell you, I wasn’t fussing or causing havoc, Cullen, give me some credit,”_ – for Cullen to return. Then Alistair had been beckoned over, and informed that the Warden wanted to see him fight. Glavin wasn’t happy about it – not happy at all – but the Warden was in the one in authority on the matter.

Cullen chided and berated him for the first few minutes of gushing and helping him into his armour, but all annoyance quickly dried up into anxious silence as Alistair chattered on, oblivious. What if Alistair got hurt? What if Alistair embarrassed someone senior in the Order? What if—

What if the Warden chose him? The possibility of leaving the Order had Alistair animated like…

Well, like Cullen could distract him. But more.

The possibility left Cullen cold.

“Hey,” Alistair interrupted his thoughts. He was all but ready, with only the gauntlets to put on and his sword and shield to pick up, and he slid one hand up to cup Cullen’s cheek. They were alone, but the tender gesture nevertheless brought blushes to both boys’ faces. “Cullen? Are you alright?”

Cullen shut his eyes and leant into Alistair’s palm. “Be careful out there, Al.”

“Worried I’ll get hurt? I’m touched.”

“I’ve seen you knock yourself out during sparring, Al – I don’t want to see you embarrass yourself in front of the Knight-Commander.”

Alistair laughed at that. “Then you’d better kiss me good luck.”

Cullen needed no further invitation, and closed the remaining inches between them, slipping his arms around his waist. Alistair’s armour was cold and hard, in stark contrast to his warm, pliant lips, and as Alistair brought up his other hand to tilt Cullen’s head down just a little, Cullen was grateful that he had not donned his gauntlets. The kiss was just a little desperate, and when they parted both were panting slightly.

  
  


They got Alistair’s gauntlets on in silence, and made their way back down to the courtyard pretending just to be best friends, one acting as squire for the other.

Along with the other knights’ squires (Farris was there too, acting as Knight-Lieutenant Henna’s squire), Cullen got a real ringside view of the fights now. Alistair put up a decent fight in each round. He lost some, and won others. (Knight-Lieutenant Henna looked _livid_ after he knocked her onto her backside.) Some of the crowd grumbled about the unfairness of adding a new competitor after the morning, but soon he was winning the crowd with his smile, fervour, and good sportsmanship, offering a hand up to those he bested and not taking it personally when they refused it. (The Bournshire recruits had started chanting _A-li-stair! A-li-stair!_ each time he entered the field or took a bow.) After each match, whatever the result, his eyes sought out Cullen.

Each time, it was a little harder to grin back.

Cullen didn’t want him to go. Maker, he didn’t. Part of him wanted Alistair to fail so spectacularly that the Warden wouldn’t even think about recruiting him, even at the expense of his dignity; but the kinder part of Cullen, the part of him that loved Alistair as best he could and saw a future where the funny, sweet boy died a little more inside every day until there was nothing left of the person Cullen had fallen for, knew it was right for him to go.

It didn’t stop the feeling that he was being torn apart, or that Alistair was ready to discard him as though what they had was _nothing_ , or that he was somehow inadequate for being unable to bring Alistair enough happiness to stay.

Soon, each break in which Cullen checked over Alistair’s armour and weapons and tended as swiftly as he could do the assorted cuts, scrapes and bruises Alistair was accumulating, was carried out in near silence.

Cullen knew he’d say something hurtful and poisonous. He didn’t dare to say anything beyond, _“Are you ready?”_ and _“Be careful,”_ punctuated with chaste kisses if they were alone. 

_I don’t want you to go._

_I love you._

Alistair knew. Cullen could see it in his eyes. But they said nothing; Alistair simply chased the chaste kisses as Cullen retreated, as though trying to reassure him, _I love you too._

It was hard to believe.

~~~

The tournament ended a couple of hours before sundown. Alistair had been soundly beaten by Ser Kalvin, Ser Eryhn and Ser Talrew, the tournament favourites, as well as others, but he had fought tenaciously and then accepted his defeats with good grace, bowing to Warden and knight-commander, the nobles, and the crowd. One last time, all the competitors entered the field to listen to Glavin’s speech about valour and sacrifice and how they had honoured the Order. As one, they saluted the Warden and knight-commander, and then they were free. They would gather in the morning to hear the Warden’s verdict.

The boys walked back to the barracks in silence. Cullen helped to remove Alistair’s armour, letting his trembling fingers linger on the buckles and straps longer than he should have, but he could not shift the sense that this could be his last chance to touch him.

Which was nonsense. There was no way that Alistair would be chosen over Kalvin, or Eyrhn, or Talrew.

And yet…

“Cullen,” Alistair murmured, breaking his reverie and taking his hands. “You need to talk to me. Bottling this up, it’s—” Alistair lifted Cullen’s hands to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the knuckles.

Cullen shut his eyes tight, flustered and afraid.

“Whatever happens tomorrow, I don’t want… _this_ to have been sullied.”

Shaking his head, Cullen replied, “I’ll fuck up.”

Alistair laughed at that, but it was softer, sadder. “Come on, Cullen.”

Slowly, Cullen opened his eyes and looked at Alistair. Sunlight streamed in through a window behind them, lighting up his ginger hair like a halo, and illuminating the sharp planes of his bronze face. There was still some blood caked in his brows and hairline, and a nick on jaw had reopened somehow, beading there like a red jewel. His brown eyes creased in quiet concern, and his lips still pressed against Cullen’s fingers. He seemed smaller in just the burgundy tunic over chainmail than he had in full armour, and fatigue and worry had worn away the bravado of the tournament. 

Cullen took a moment just to memorise the perfection before breaking the silence. “Do you want to go?”

There it was. Understanding. Guilt. “Cullen—”

“Do. You. Want. To. Go. Alistair,” Cullen ground out, fighting around the lump in his throat, trying not to cry.

There was a long, long silence.

“Yes,” Alistair finally whispered. “Maker’s breath, but I’m miserable in the Order. You’re the only good thing about it, Cullen, but— You belong here. I don’t.”

Cullen swallowed. “Al—”

But before he could finish, they heard the excited clamour of their peers outside the door. Alistair snatched one of Cullen’s hands up to the cut on his jaw, and fumbled for the damp cloth Cullen had dropped onto the table.

When the door slammed open, the pair were the picture of a sensible squire tending to his knight.

“Alistair, what the fuck?” demanded Genevieve, though she sounded more delighted than angry. Within seconds the other eight candidates had surrounded them, and along with the two knights started bombarding Alistair with questions.

Cullen edged backwards, letting go of both Alistair and cloth, and quietly fled the scene.

It took an hour of circling the grounds for Cullen to work through the anger at Alistair, turn it into anger at himself for being such a selfish bastard, and then let the anger go so he could decide what to do.

He decided to speak to the Warden.

He didn’t get as far as deciding what to _say_ to the Warden.

Another thirty minutes later, he had taken a leaf out of Alistair’s book and told a few white lies to get as far as the knight-commander’s office, where the Grey Warden was meeting to discuss the potential new Warden. As a knight went in to announce him – “There’s a recruit here to see you, Warden-Commander — says he has something important to tell you about one of the candidates,” — Cullen’s knees shook. What was he doing? Twisting the truth, bringing himself to the attention of the blasted knight-commander of Denerim— One false step, and his vows could be delayed, perhaps permanently.

He straightened his back, gave his lucky coin a quick rub, and took a calming deep breath. 

_'I cannot see the path._  
_Perhaps there is only abyss._  
_Trembling, I step forward,_  
_In darkness enveloped.'_

The door opened. “Come in!” a voice snapped.

Cullen marched smartly into the room and saluted with textbook precision. “Knight-Commander Glavin,” he greeted the templar who sat behind a meticulously organised desk. Cullen’s gaze skipped to the elderly woman standing behind him, and it took a moment to recognise the attire of a grand cleric, having never met one before. “Your Grace!” Lastly, calmly sat by the fire, hands folded in his lap and regarding Cullen with kindly curiosity, was the dark-skinned Warden. “Warden-Commander Duncan. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Get to the point, recruit,” the knight-commander grunted. “You have information on one of the candidates?”

“Yes, ser,” Cullen replied.

“Well then, spit it out. We don’t have all evening.”

“Well, I—”

This time it was the grand cleric who interrupted. “Get on with it, boy.”

“Now, now, Your Grace,” rumbled the Warden. “Give the lad a chance — I doubt he’s had occasion to speak with such esteemed individuals as yourselves before.”

The grand cleric scoffed softly, but subsided, apparently mollified. Cullen felt himself blush a little, but sent the Warden a grateful smile.

“Now – you are Alistair’s friend, are you not?”

“I am,” answered Cullen, a little surprised, even as the knight-commander spluttered. “How did you—?”

“I saw him go to you after I requested his entry to the tournament, as well as the way he looked for you after each match. You were his squire for the afternoon?”

“Yes, ser.”

The knight-commander caught his breath. “What’s your name, recruit?”

“Cullen Rutherford, ser, of Honnleath. I began training at the Bournshire Monastery five years ago. My vigil is scheduled for the first of Solace.”

“Rutherford, Rutherford,” the man muttered, “where have I heard that name— Ah. The druffalo incident, yes?”

Cullen winced at the memory. “I tried to talk Alistair out of it, ser, I really did.”

“Yes— Knight-Captain Rylock said in her report that she fully believed you didn’t mean to end up involved in the prank.”

 _Why would a report go all the way to Denerim about that?_ wondered Cullen, frowning a little even through his mortification. _Certainly, to Knight-Commander Harrith at Redcliffe, but—_

“I suppose you’ve come to ensure that the fool doesn’t embarrass the Order as a member of the Grey Wardens, then?”

Dropping his gaze, Cullen muttered, “I… hoped to speak to the Warden-Commander privately, ser. But yes, it’s about Alistair.”

The grand cleric tutted. “Chances are we’ve already heard any disparagement against the boy. You may speak freely.”

“No,” interrupted the Warden, rising from his chair. “I’ll speak to him alone. His bravery deserves that much respect.”

Cullen definitely flushed at that and scratched at the back of his neck as the Warden guided him from the room, ignoring the indignant complaints behind them.

A minute later, Cullen was led into a small, dark bedroom, lit only by the twilit sky through the slit window and the embers in the hearth. The Warden approached the fire, and started poking at it. “What did you wish to say, lad? Take your time. I won’t let you get in trouble.”

“I—” Cullen stopped. He stared at the stone floor for a long, long minute as he dug for the words. What did he want? And more importantly, what did Alistair _need?_

Eventually, slowly, he said, “You should take Alistair.”

“Why’s that?” There was nothing aggressive in the Warden’s tone – just a simple request for elaboration.

“He’s—” Cullen stopped again, and swallowed. Maker, what did it matter if he spilt his guts to this stranger? They would part ways after this, never to see each other again. Alistair needed Cullen’s honesty. “Alistair,” he said carefully, “is the best man I know. I realise that I’m young and I haven’t met many people, but he’s the best I know. He is kind, and funny, and brave, and the only reason he doesn’t have any other friends is because he _hates_ the Order.” 

The Warden regarded him silently, now, and Cullen sped up as he found his voice. “He was sent to the monastery because his uncle’s wife was— was— was a spiteful, jealous woman who wanted Al gone. Al didn’t do anything wrong, but there was a rumour about who his father was and— He had to go. So he was sent to the Order. He never wanted to be a templar. I did, I do, and Maker, I don’t know how we ended up like this but it breaks my heart to see how _dead_ he is inside sometimes.” 

Tears were burning Cullen’s eyes, and he didn’t care. “All those pranks, they veered between wanting to find some joy and wanting to be thrown out. Ser, he _wanted_ to try to be good, he really did, but he’s miserable. He’ll be wasted in the Order. He deserves— He deserves happiness. Friendship. Validation. A life spent doing something worthy because he _wants_ it, not because he’s a blight on someone’s image. I can’t— I can’t give him that,” he choked out, tears finally spilling over. He screwed his eyes tight, and dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands. “Ser, I don’t— I don’t want him to go, but I can’t be so selfish as to wish him a life of torture for my sake. _Please._ Take him with you.”

The Warden straightened up, and moved over to Cullen, prompting him to open his eyes. The man was several inches shorter than Cullen, and wiry rather than bulky, but Cullen had no doubt that the man could kill him within mere seconds of deciding to do so. One wizened hand, mottled oddly grey in patches, gripped Cullen’s forearm like a vice.

“I had already made up my mind,” the Warden said gently. “I did not come here to find the best warrior. I came to find someone that the Grey Wardens need. That is what I see in Alistair, and I will invoke the Rite of Conscription if those fools Glavin and Annetta refuse to see it. But I am heartened to know that he has made such a selfless friend as yourself — that he has earnt the love of a fine young man. It speaks well of him.”

Cullen’s breath caught in his throat. “Ser—?”

“Now go,” said the Warden. “Say your goodbyes. Tell no one, save Alistair if you must; you will likely not meet again.”

“I— Thank you, ser.”

“Thank _you._ I hope I live long enough to hear of the brave exploits of Ser Cullen Rutherford of Honnleath.”

Ears burning, Cullen ducked his head again. “...Take care of him, please. We’re not supposed to seek glory, ser, but should there be tales… I want him to hear of them, too.”

“I’ll do everything in my power to look after him. Now _go._ The hours will go quicker than you want.”

Cullen saluted one last time, and fled.

~~~

“Maker’s breath, Cullen, where have you been?” hissed Alistair, shaking Cullen gently by the lapels of his tunic. The others pretended to ignore them, lounging around on the beds at the other end of the room, but Cullen knew better. “Two hours I’ve been rebuked by Malachi, given the cold-shoulder by Henna and fussed over by Genevieve and the others! And you left me to that!”

Carefully disentangling Alistair’s hands from the fabric, Cullen soothed him with rough-voiced apologies. “I’m sorry, Al, I’m sorry, I had to do something—”

“I hope it was important!”

“It was.”

There was a beat of silence. “Oh. Well. Good.” Alistair coughed. “Have you eaten yet?”

“...No. Haven’t had a chance.”

“Then what say you we sneak down to the kitchens and do something about that?”

Cullen smiled weakly at Alistair. “Let me just tell Ser Malachi where we’re going.”

After promising not to let Alistair get into even more trouble than he was already in, getting food, and staying back _just_ long enough to get directions from one of the Denerim recruits on kitchen duties as to where there might be somewhere moderately comfortable that someone could spend the night without being disturbed, Cullen managed to get himself and Alistair into a tiny, cramped, unoccupied one-person bedroom. Apparently, the usual occupant should be at his vigil.

“Well, isn’t this nice,” chuckled Alistair as he put the food down on the desk once Cullen had shut the door. Turning back, he grinned and asked, “Is this what you stayed behind for—!”

Cullen silenced him with a kiss, hard and needy. When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against Alistair’s and mumbled, “I’m sorry, Al. I’ve been insufferable today. I want to make it up to you. Forgive me?”

Alistair smiled, the expression crinkling his eyes, and he pressed a soft kiss to Cullen’s lips. “Of course. But I thought you promised we weren’t going to get in trouble?”

“You won’t, I promise. Or nothing lasting, anyway,” he clarified, already feeling heady with grief and lust and the hot gusts of Alistair’s breath on his face. It was true. Their chaperone couldn’t touch Alistair now. “I’ll tell Malachi we got lost before curfew and got told to bunk with the Denerim lot. He’ll grumble, but he grumbles about everything.”

They laughed at that, but then Alistair tugged him over to the food. “Eat first. Then making up.”

Cullen couldn’t tell Alistair. Alistair was going to be a Grey Warden under his own merit, but if he thought Cullen had intervened he might doubt that. Plus, Cullen wanted to pretend for as long as he could that it wasn’t happening.

He could allow himself that little bit of selfishness.

Hours later, when they were sweaty and spent, their long limbs tangled around each other, Cullen found his head under Alistair’s chin while the other boy’s bony fingers ran absently over his blonde curls. He could hear Alistair’s pulse, strong and steady, and he shut his eyes.

“You know,” whispered Alistair, when Cullen was on the verge of sleep, “you’re probably the only reason I haven’t run away, or arranged a strategic accident with something interesting and sharp in the armoury.”

Cullen’s eyes snapped open and his own heart started racing again. “Al—”

“No, let me finish. You were upset because you thought I didn’t care about you. About us. Right?”

Cullen made no reply beyond tensing his shoulders.

Alistair sighed. “I thought so. Cullen — for what it’s worth, you are the most important person in my life right now. I can’t imagine that the Grey Warden will be taking me with him tomorrow, and so right now I’m selfishly clinging to the hope that we’ll both be assigned to the same place just so I don’t go mad. I just— I couldn’t let the chance—”

Not for the first time, but perhaps for the last, Cullen cut him off with a kiss. “I know, Al. I know you hate it, and I know I’m not enough to make it tolerable.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Cullen.”

That time, the kiss was full of smiles, soft and languid. “I was angry,” Cullen admitted, “but I’m not any more. I want you to be happy, whether that’s with me or out of the Order.”

“I’m pretty happy right now.”

“I’m glad.” Cullen settled himself back down under Alistair’s chin, but did not shut his eyes. One question hung over him. “...Al?”

He hummed sleepily.

“Would… you miss me if the Warden took you?”

There was a brief stillness. Then Alistair pressed his lips into Cullen’s hair. “You are the only thing I would miss, Cullen.”

~~~

Ser Malachi had snapped at them when they returned the next morning, but had bought Cullen’s story and grudgingly left the pair to get Alistair ready for the announcement.

There had been one, last, long kiss before the gauntlets went on.

_“Just in case.”_

Cullen had lingered, longer than usual, trying to memorise this moment; the softness of Alistair’s hair; the tremble of his calloused fingertips as they fisted his own locks; the glow of his dark skin in the morning sunlight; the taste of his lips and mouth.

The, _I love you,_ had gone unspoken once more, but perhaps not uncommunicated. 

Genevieve had saved a space for him. Now, he stood stiffly with the other Bournshire recruits, overlooking the field from one of the galleries, his gaze fixed on the figure with ginger hair slicked up at the front. Alistair, for once, was keeping his eyes on the stand where the Warden and knight-commander stood.

The Warden stepped forward, and a hush fell over the assembled templars.

“The Grey Wardens thank the Order for gathering so many of Ferelden’s finest in one place, and for permitting us to take one to join our never-ending fight against the darkspawn. I have seen talent and tenacity, and each of you who fought should be proud of your skills. But being a Grey Warden means more than having the ability to swing a sword. Being a templar and being a Grey Warden are different vocations, and I would not take anyone better suited to the role they have than to that of a Grey Warden. Today, I take from you a recruit who I am sure will better serve the Grey Wardens than your own cause.”

“Oh, no,” gasped Genevieve quietly, her hands coming up to her face.

Cullen swallowed, and fought back the tears.

“Be proud of him, and keep him in your prayers. Alistair of Redcliffe?”

There was a stunned silence in the courtyard. In the ring, Alistair had frozen. The rest of the knights looked around for him. Someone nudged him. He flinched, but then slowly made his way forward as the knights made a path for him. Many of them sent dark scowls his way, but either he ignored them or didn’t notice them.

Once up on the stand, he stood, almost dazed, as the Warden and knight-commander shook his hand. Maker, but Glavin looked like he wanted to gut Alistair.

Suddenly, Alistair snapped out of his daze and looked around. Seeing the crowd, he hesitated and then saluted them.

The silence went on.

Then, next to Cullen, Genevieve cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “A-li-stair! A-li-stair!”

Suddenly the other recruits were joining in the chanting, and a moment later the rest of the crowd started making appreciative sounds, clapping or cheering. They had quite liked him, after all, even if he was a cheeky little upstart.

But Cullen remained silent. With Genevieve’s shout, Alistair had been able to locate the group, and they had locked gazes. The roar of the crowd faded away as Cullen desperately tried to fix Alistair’s face in his mind, this last moment.

Alistair’s eyes widened, even as the Warden took his arm to steer him off the stand. _“You knew,”_ he mouthed.

The tears spilt over, blinding Cullen. He dragged his sleeve across his eyes as he held back sobs.

By the time he had blinked away enough to see again, Alistair was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT? [CLICK HERE.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14000586/chapters/32239608)
> 
> WANT MORE IN THIS WORLDSTATE? Then head over to _[Blood and Magic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3712204/chapters/8217799),_ which does at times allude to this past experience of Cullen's, and where he will eventually get his romance. Alistair will make a cameo at an appropriate juncture, but that will happen when it happens.
> 
> Can you tell I haven't written kissing or smut before? Hope you enjoyed it, regardless.
> 
> A few notes:  
> ~ The dates/ages/times all fit within the given canon, but I had some flexibility with specifics. I headcanon that the Fifth Blight started in the summer of 9:30 and finished a year later, so both the boys needed to be taking their vows in the summer of 9:29. I arbitrarily set Cullen's birthday on 4th Bloomingtide, because it's the equivalent of 4th May, Star Wars Day, and Cullen's a nerd so there.  
> ~ I picked the West Hills Arling for the location of the Bournshire Monastery as we don't actually know where Bournshire is, and West Hills is conveniently close to both Honnleath and Redcliffe, where the boys grew up.  
> ~ I am a firm believer in both Cullen and Alistair's bisexuality. I personally HC that they haven't gone beyond oral sex in their relationship, but the scene is left deliberately vague for hc-ing purposes.  
> ~ Yes, Cullen was referring to Anders.  
> ~ Turnip and barley stew is a traditional Ferelden dish, the recipe of which is given in _WoT2_.  
>  ~ The referenced verse from the Chant is from the Canticle of Trials 1:13.  
> ~ What's the druffalo incident? Well, that would be telling...


End file.
